Heiress in Love (15 page)

Jones still lived in a cottage on the estate. Constantine had seen his name in the account books. “I didn’t realize he was so advanced in years. Had to be pensioned off, did he?”

But Larkin couldn’t express an opinion on that. Or on anything else, for that matter. In the end, Constantine let him go and retreated to his own chamber to dress for dinner.

He pondered his estate agent. A well-meaning but diffident individual, if first impressions were anything to go by. Not at all what he required in a steward. He’d put the fellow to work in some other capacity. He needed a strong, shrewd character to manage the estate.

George sprang to mind as the perfect choice. But his brother had his own property to run. Constantine sighed. He must request his solicitor to draw up the necessary documents to transfer Broadmere into George’s name. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Not even to escape marriage would he sell the family home out from under his brother.

His mind slid to the Ice Maiden. He’d told her the truth last night: he
hadn’t
made up his mind whether to propose marriage to her. In light of his discoveries today, however, wedding her seemed the only option.

He needed to repay the debt on that mill or risk losing it altogether. One and a half months was too short a time to come up with that kind of money from thin air. He could carve up the estate and sell off some of the land, perhaps, but that would take time. Moreover, it went sorely against the grain. Tenants lived with the promise of eventually purchasing a long-term lease of the land they worked. It would go hard for morale if Constantine started selling that land out from under them.

And despite what
certain people
might think, he was fully cognizant of his duty to future generations. It was his obligation to preserve the estate, not sell bits of it off, willy-nilly. Wedding Lady Roxdale would be preferable to that.

Constantine’s hands paused in the act of tying his cravat. The very notion of marriage curdled in his gut like sour milk. His utter refusal to wed when polite society dictated that he should had affected his life in disastrous ways. Ah, but he’d been raw, unsophisticated, passionate in his sense of betrayal. Everything had been black-and-white in those days.

He checked his reflection in the mirror, then allowed his valet to assist him with his coat. A deep, rich burgundy that hugged his shoulders like a besotted whore.

Constantine twitched a cuff into place. No, despite the grim picture he’d gained that day, he hadn’t given up on finding a solution to his financial woes.

Tomorrow, he’d track down Frederick’s old steward. What Jones didn’t know about Lazenby wasn’t worth knowing. If there was a way to save the mill, he’d wager Jones would hold the key.

By the end of the week, he should have a more accurate idea of the sum total of his assets. Aside from various investments in the funds, his personal fortune did not amount to much, for he didn’t count Broadmere. A few prime-blooded horses, his carriages. His collection of curiosities might fetch something. He’d sent to town for an auctioneer who was versed in such matters.

Ah, hell, perhaps he’d sell off the family silver, as well.

*   *   *

Jane was not obliged to force a pleasant expression to her face when Constantine strolled into the drawing room that evening. Keeping company with two women of very strong and decided opinions like Lady Arden and Lady Endicott could be wearing on the nerves. Relief, as much as her determination to be charming, fueled her smile.

Nervous tension wound through her body. She’d donned the most becoming mourning gown she possessed, discarding the fichu she usually would have tucked into her neckline to cover her bosom. Her hair … She still wasn’t sure about it. Her maid assured her this style was all the crack in London. It felt loose and pretty, almost decadent, as if it might tumble down around her shoulders at any moment. Jane resisted putting her hand up to make sure her curls were secure.

Constantine halted on the threshold, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He moved forward. “Good evening, Cousin Jane.” Constantine bowed over her hand in the correct manner. He didn’t press her fingers or seek to kiss them, but the fleeting contact was quite enough to make her senses spring to awareness.

She hoped she concealed her irrational and wholly inconvenient response, but his eyes glittered wickedly as they quizzed her.

“You looked genuinely happy to see me, just now,” he murmured. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“There you are, Constantine!”

At the sound of that musical voice, Constantine’s head jerked up. He looked beyond Jane, to the far side of the drawing room.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

Jane stifled a spurt of laughter. Constantine covered his exclamation of dismay with a cough and moved forward to greet his relatives.

“Lady Arden.” He bowed and raised her hand to his lips. “You grow lovelier every time I see you.”

Eyes dancing, Lady Arden said, “Don’t think you can turn me up sweet after all these years, you rogue. I’m immune to your charm.”

Which was absolute rot, of course. Jane couldn’t help but enjoy watching the unflappable Lady Arden flutter a little at Constantine’s attentions.

He even managed to turn Lady Endicott up sweet, a feat Jane would never have thought possible. Jane had listened to the countess rant about Constantine’s lack of manners, morals, and filial feeling for the last half hour. Yet, a few adroit compliments from Constantine and his aunt sang a sweeter tune.

At dinner, they sat informally, with Constantine at the head of the table, Jane at his right hand, Lady Arden and Lady Endicott at his left. Soon, the older ladies had put their heads together, catching up on family gossip, leaving Jane and Constantine to their own devices. Jane braced herself for flirtation, but Constantine offered her none, confining his conversation to neutral topics until dinner was served.

As the footmen trooped in with silver salvers and serving dishes, Jane relaxed a little. Perhaps, with his female relatives within earshot, Constantine would behave himself.

Constantine accepted service from a dish of buttered lobster. “I suppose you miss your cousins, now that they’re gone.”

If he implied she ought to follow their lead, Jane chose to seem oblivious to the hint. “Yes, they are very dear to me.”

He tilted his head, as if considering her. “The duke is formidable. What was it like, growing up under his roof?”

“His Grace didn’t have an awful lot to do with us when we were children,” said Jane. “My cousins and I were left to our own devices for much of the time.” She considered. “I suppose living at Harcourt was rather fun. The boys teased us mercilessly, of course. But we wreaked our revenge. Cecily was particularly ingenious at thinking up ways to make them pay for their crimes.”

Constantine nodded to a footman, who poured claret. “I’d gathered Lady Cecily was rather a handful.”

“Undoubtedly. But so charming and funny with it that no one can withstand her. She is not out yet, strictly speaking, but she has been betrothed to the Duke of Norland since the cradle, so there is no need for undue haste.”

“And Lady Rosamund? I suppose her marriage is arranged also. Such a beauty would have been snapped up in her first Season, otherwise.”

He could not fail to notice Rosamund’s beauty, of course. That made Jane a little wistful. “She is remarkably lovely, isn’t she? Lady Rosamund is to wed the Earl of Tregarth. Do you know him?”

“I think so. He’s a deVere, isn’t he?” He leaned over to murmur, “Don’t mention that name in Lady Arden’s hearing. The deVeres and the Blacks have been mortal enemies for centuries.”

Constantine’s warm breath tickled her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. To cover her reaction, she forced a smile. “No, really? I thought that sort of thing had died out in Elizabethan times. The Montagues and the Capulets and all that.”

“Oh, not at all. The old rivalries are alive and well, even if they find expression in a less violent manner these days.” His jaw hardened the slightest amount. “Most of the time.”

Had Constantine ever fought a duel? Perhaps over that lady he’d loved and abandoned…? No. She would not think about that lady tonight.

Jane accepted service from various dishes, scarcely noticing what they were. Regardless of the harmless nature of their conversation, she couldn’t fail to be aware of Constantine’s every movement and expression. Apprehension tied her stomach in knots. She couldn’t eat a bite.

“Did none of you Westruther maidens pine for love?” asked Constantine. “Three fine, intelligent women must have found such gothic arrangements quite irksome, surely.”

Irksome? He didn’t know the half of it. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “A Westruther does not expect love in marriage. In fact, I—I believe it must be more comfortable for both parties that way.”

Constantine regarded her for a moment as if he wanted to make some remark. Then he seemed to change his mind and merely gestured with his fork. “You should try the veal fricassee. It’s superb.”

She glanced down at her plate, as yet untouched. Ordinarily, food held little interest for her. In fact, most often she had to be reminded to take sustenance.

“You sound just like my old nurse, urging me to eat,” she said, taking up her cutlery. What an inappropriate comparison! Anyone less like plump, homely old Nurse than the wild, beautiful man next to her would be difficult to find.

“Eating well is one of life’s great pleasures,” said Constantine. “Unlike some other enjoyable vices, it has the added advantage of not hurting anyone.” He shrugged. “Why not indulge?”

The slight rasp in his low voice played over her nerves like a bow on violin strings. She wondered if his invitation extended only to gastronomical delights. Then she noticed that his eyes gleamed with devilry and she became quite certain that it did not.

Jane surveyed her plate with a keener understanding of how Eve must have felt when confronted with an apple-wielding snake.

With a hint of defiance, she pressed the tines of her fork into a sliver of veal and raised the morsel to her mouth. She barely repressed a groan as the explosion of flavor thrilled her taste buds. It was almost too intense a sensation after the blandness of the fare she’d grown accustomed to.

“Well?” he demanded.

She swallowed, schooling her face to indifference.

“Perfectly adequate,” she managed.

His brows drew together.
“Adequate?”

Jane strove to preserve an innocent front. He must have read something of the truth in her expression, however, because a slow smile spread over Constantine’s face. His gaze seemed to sharpen on her mouth. Did she have a spot of sauce there? Self-conscious, she licked her lips.

His eyes heated, but his voice remained nonchalant. “I would berate you for stifling the talents of a true master, Lady Roxdale, but it’s clear to me that you are more to be pitied.” He shook his head. “
Adequate.
Do not pass on that sentiment to Cook. She’d give notice on the spot, and I’d be forced to follow.”

Jane savored another mouthful, valiantly suppressing a sigh of appreciation. He was right; she’d not realized what she was missing. Frederick’s doctor had forbidden him rich food years ago. It would have been a little unsporting to partake of subtle French delicacies while Frederick suffered through boiled mutton and peas.

“I believe Cook will have to content herself with your more fulsome praise, sir,” she said, taking a sip of wine. She frowned in agreeable surprise. “Is this from our cellars?”

“I’d never insult Marthe’s creations with inferior wine.” He reached for his glass. “A good claret is meant to be enjoyed, not hoarded like miser’s gold.”

“You are a hedonist,” she said, with a hint of reproof.

“A sensualist,” he corrected. “I take pleasure where I find it.”

Spoken in that husky tone of his, the words made heat curl inside her. She felt breathless, off balance, unsure. And more convinced than before that she’d acted wisely by refusing to admit how revelatory this meal had been.

The candlelight burnished Constantine’s skin to bronze, highlighted the sculpted edges of his cheekbones, the strong lines of his jaw. She became fascinated with his fingers as they toyed with the stem of his wine glass. Long and tapering, with a subtle strength in the flex of them. The white ruffle of his cuff fell elegantly against his broad, tanned hand.

He raised the wine and drank deeply. Their gazes caught and held.

Lady Endicott’s strident voice shattered this strange tension. “Constantine! Jane! Did you hear what I said?”

Annoyance flickered across Constantine’s features. Jane was conscious of irritation herself, yet she ought to thank the countess for deliverance.

Without waiting for an answer, the countess barreled on. “Lady Arden has just given me the most alarming news from Town.” She turned her glare upon the other lady. “Really, Emma, I don’t know why you didn’t think to mention it before. Dreadful harpy with her talons in my son,” she muttered. “I will not have it! Jane,” she added, “I must return to London. I am sorry if this leaves you in a difficult position, my dear, but this is important!”